Brown and Rotten Banana, Watching the Olympics

Suddenly I feel old watching the Olympics, because most of the competitors are younger than I am. In 1996 I was younger than everybody. In 2000 and 2004 everyone was about my age, but now in 2008 mostly all athletes are younger than me. My heart is heavy thinking how that boat has sailed.

But maybe there is hope for me. As I mentioned, Dara Torres is setting world records at 41 and over the weekend I saw Soviet-born German gymnast Oksana Chusovitina at 33 competing in a sport dominated by 16 year-olds (and would be dominated by even younger girls without recent restrictions imposing 16 as the minimum age for competition). There’s an article about older Olympians in today’s New York Times: “Age Is Little Match for Money, Science and Effort”. The article cites scientists who argue there’s no scientific basis for athletic peaks having to be in the early 20’s; that mundane time constraints such as employment preventing training requisite to be an Olympian limited potential much more than age-related physical deterioration.

I’m aware that I’m evaluating my Olympic potential based on my age rather than my lack of athletic ability. I think the reason for this is that deep down I don’t really care about being in the Olympics; instead, I’m haunted by the feeling that I missed out on many simple aspects of childhood, adolescence, and teenage years. I’m unable to let go of that loss and seeing 19 year-old gold medalists reminds me of my own unhappiness at 19. Sometimes I worry I will sabotage my own children’s emotions, because else the happier they are the more miserable I will be.

I never really cared about sports, but it’s the social connections I felt I never had that naturally seem to accompany athletic aptitude that I think is at the heart of the matter. Because of risks I never took, all I see are the opportunities I missed and I wonder about what might have been if things were different. Although most of the time I’m cripplingly under-confident, there are other times I think could have had, or might have had, much more to ever offer than I got the chance.

I found my muse yesterday, and if I were to write a poem, the metaphor I would use for myself is fruit that went bad on the grocery stand; something ruined and wasted that never had a chance to be tested (or tasted). A banana or mango that was never picked up or overlooked which would have been fresh produce but instead turned to brown rot and was thrown out by grocery clerks, or what would have been mouth-watering baked bread that ran its expiration date out sitting on the shelf.